


Cut Scenes

by AnneTaylor



Series: Witcher Mountain [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22858774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneTaylor/pseuds/AnneTaylor
Summary: First of all, don’t read any further if you haven’t read “A Wolf In Chains”. It won’t make much sense, and it contains spoilers.It isn’t actually a story, just a collection of cut scenes that I wrote to figure out what was going on in behind the scenes and in peoples’ minds. I’m going to publish them one by one, roughly in time sequence. I will end up with a full sex scene from the end of chapter 8, from Geralt’s POV, because it has been mentioned that it was somewhat abrupt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Witcher Mountain [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643239
Comments: 26
Kudos: 85





	1. Opening The Door

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the scenes involve Lord Sheltingham (who, I think, I am already regretting giving such a long name 😊) As I mentioned in chapter 7, Sheltingham wasn’t originally even named. He was just some guy who offered ten thousand for Geralt and precipitated an emotional crisis. But the more I wrote about him, the more he began to interest me as a character.
> 
> The first thing that was on my mind as I was writing the first cut scene, was Geralt’s catalogue of his skills for Jaskier in chapter 5. He tells Jaskier that he’s good at sex. This isn’t an idle boast. He’s had to become very good at it, using his witcher enhanced senses and ability to read people to know what pleases his masters and mistress. Especially the latter. His last Mistress, Idunia, forced him to serve the tastes of her wealthy and noble guests. Her “house parties” became legendary, largely because of Geralt. She persuaded him to cooperate by promising him that he would be a free man at the end of a year, and that after that he would be able to negotiate his own deals with the men and women who came to her house to be entertained, and to experience acts that they could not obtain elsewhere. At least not without paying a great deal of money or exposing themselves to the sort of diseases such acts usually rewarded their participants with. Witchers are immune to disease. It was a known fact.
> 
> At the end of the year, he was awakened early in the morning and taken to the slave pits. His legs were welded into permanent irons, leaving him no doubt of his eventual fate. And then he was taken into a room where even his manhood was going to be taken from him. We know what comes after that. The witcher was a man who had given up on everything. Trust. Hope. Jaskier was the only man who could have restored his faith and his trust. And even Jaskier nearly lost him twice.
> 
> The cut scenes also started because I was curious. I wanted to know what Lord Sheltingham was really after, and so I started to write the scene from Geralt’s POV and let the scene wander into whatever territory it wanted to go. As usual, I ended up with the unexpected. The more I wrote, the more complex he became. Sheltingham is going to be a major character in the second book. I hope these cut scenes will tell you why.

Geralt watched as Lord Isikiel Sheltingham put the three-year-old through her paces in the emptied pasture. He had light hands and a firm leg, a good combination for the filly. _He knows his horses. Good. She deserves the best_.

Jaskier had been surprised, even awestruck when he’d heard Sheltingham was interested in purchasing a horse from Iris House. The man was wealthy and powerful. He had five estates attached to his various titles; Marquis of something and Baron of something else. Clythe had told him that only two of them had been inherited. One of them was won in a poker game. The other two were gifts from King Udam Flavonis of Kaedwen. Shane said he was the king’s favorite, and sneered when he said it. Clythe had clouted the back of Shane’s head for that impertinence.

The man looked like one might expect a noble and wealthy man to look. Arrogant. In control. But in a casual way, taking his power as a given, not to be commented on. One of his estates was close to Jaskier’s, perhaps an hour by wagon. Clythe had been called upon to do some work there when Sheltingham’s private blacksmith was unavailable.

He opened the gate as Sheltingham trotted the filly back into the exercise yard.

“What did you think, Milord?” Jaskier asked. He looked anxious. Clythe had told Geralt that Sheltingham’s favor could make or break a man. Just one more mark against the flatlanders, in Geralt’s opinion. No man should have that sort of power over another.

Sheltingham patted the filly’s neck as he dismounted.

Geralt took Patina’s reins and led her aside. Trying to be unobtrusive while the lords worked out their deal, he asked Patina for her hoof and began scraping the mud out of it.

“I’ll take her. She’s just what I was looking for.” _He treats his mounts kindly. Assuming that wasn’t just for show_. But why would such a rich and powerful man bother about Jaskier’s opinion of him?

“I am honored by your patronage, Milord.” Jaskier sounded happy. It was a condition Geralt saw all too infrequently. Money was tight. Iris House was known for flowers, not horses. Demon’s get were exceptional, but until the stable was able to achieve some kind of renown, it wouldn’t generate interest and Jaskier’s horses would continue to sell at well below their true worth.

Geralt had high hopes for one of this year’s crop. Demonchaser, they had named him. _He’ll follow in his father’s footsteps_ , Geralt had told Jaskier. Without the filthy temper, fortunately. It might mean they’d have a chance at the King’s Cup next year. The black jumper that Geralt had such hopes for had jumped a fence and been mauled by a wolf before she could be raced in Ard Carraigh. It had been a terrible blow to both of them.

"Shall we retire to Iris House to work out the details? Or...perhaps you can simply send your man by to sign the papers?"

"Exceptional filly. Responsive but well behaved. And you say this is your trainer?"

Geralt tried to pretend he couldn’t hear them discussing him. Slaves were supposed to be invisible. Sheltingham had to know that, and he couldn’t miss the fact that Geralt was a slave. The brand would have given it away if nothing else had.

"I've heard of him. They say you got him at the auction for five hundred. Quite a stroke of luck, hmm? I spoke with one of his former mistresses. He was quite...well remembered."

Geralt’s fingers tightened around Patina’s hoof and she protested. He let her take it back and moved on to the next hoof, trying not to think about what the man had said. Sheltingham had asked the Baroness Idunia about Geralt. The woman who had promised him his freedom in exchange what was left of his soul. He’d been left with nothing but the certain knowledge that nobody could be trusted.

Until Jaskier.

"No doubt. Shane! Help Lord Sheltingham get Patina ready to be transported to her new home, will you?"

He relaxed. Jaskier could handle the man. He handed off the filly’s reins to Shane and started toward the barn. Better that he make himself scarce.

"Wait. One more item of business." There was the clink of coins. "I want him for my stable. Ten thousand crowns. Quite a large profit on your investment, eh, Lord Pankratz?"

Ten thousand crowns. Geralt couldn’t breathe. That would save Iris House. Discretely invested, it would provide a perpetual source of income. There was no way Jaskier could afford to turn the man’s offer down. If Sheltingham wanted him that badly…it would be suicide to refuse.

"I...I'm overwhelmed by your offer.” Jaskier’s voice sounded choked. He had to be aware of the consequences, too. The right thing to do would be to sell Geralt. And yet, there was a part of Geralt that screamed for him to say the words that would keep Geralt safe.

Geralt went inside the barn. Jaskier would feel constrained if Geralt stayed. He wanted Jaskier to make his decision without guilt.

_He promised. He won’t do it._

_I’ve made the mistake of believing that before._

Behind the barn, there were rounds that needed chopping. _Might as well do something useful while I wait to find out who is going to own my life at the end of the day_. Geralt picked up the hammer.

* * *

Rain pattered down all around, plastering the dirt of the road in soft plops, raising small explosions of yellow dust wherever they struck. A dark cloud sailed overhead, the first they’d had in nearly two weeks. The well was running low and the turtles in the pond were beginning to migrate.

Clythe was in the shed with Adrian, arguing over yet another version of Adrian’s harvester. It worked well enough that any three men could operate it now. Geralt was able to walk more easily after Jaskier had operated on his foot, rebreaking and straightening the bones. It had taken months to heal, but he now walked without a limp. It was a good feeling.

Shane was drawing the nails out of a pile of wood. Geralt thought about joining him, but he knew Shane would not appreciate his company. He understood why; Shane blamed Geralt’s people for his father’s enslavement. Not fair. But understandable.

In any case, Demon needed to be exercised. Geralt could already hear him fussing at the walls of his stall.

His ears picked up the sound of hoofbeats, coming down the road. Two horses, by the sound of it. One of them ridden, one led. The pace of a directed horse had a different sound to it.

The horses came around the crook in the road just before Iris House’s front porch. The single mounted man wore a coat of arms embroidered on his coat; Sheltingham.

 _He’s come for me_. It was an instinctive fear; Geralt firmly put it away. Jaskier would never sell him. He had given his word. There had been such truth in him, that night three weeks ago, such angry hurt that Geralt knew he had meant it to the core of his being. He would never sell Geralt.

Sheltingham’s retainer looked about, spied Geralt and nudged his horse in Geralt’s direction. He was leading a young gelding, green broke by the looks of him, a nice mover but too unsettled to be reliable.

“Geralt?” the man asked, though he couldn’t have failed to know he was speaking to the correct person. Geralt was hardly likely to be mistaken for anyone else.

“Yes.”

“Lord Sheltingham requests your presence. He understands that you are able to contract as a free agent when you are not occupied by your master’s duties.”

I wonder who he heard that from? Clythe, probably. Clythe had been doing “extras” for Sheltingham when his slave brand was still unmarred. The lord understood Jaskier’s policies.

“What does Lord Sheltingham want from me?”

“He’ll discuss that with you at Ambervale.”

Geralt looked around uneasily. Shane had his head down, but must be aware of what was going on. Jaskier and Bingham had gone into town.

He could pretend that he had important duties to attend to, but that would just postpone whatever was going to happen. Sheltingham had been putting out word that he was giving patronage to Iris House’s stable. That alone could double the price they got from selling their stock. Sheltingham’s stable was legendary. Two King’s Cup winners in the past five years alone.

Whatever Sheltingham wanted, Geralt needed to find a way to give it to him, for Jaskier’s sake. It was either horses or sex. Or both. Either way, Geralt could deal with it.

He took the reins and mounted the colt, who, predictably, spooked and tried to steal the bit. Geralt took it back easily and steadied him. Sheltingham’s retainer was watching him with a keen eye. Probably tasked with bringing back information on Geralt’s performance to his lord.

Geralt turned his head to hide a smile. This might be easier than he feared. It was something he was good at. Sheltingham could get what he wanted without actually having to purchase Geralt for an exorbitant sum. Everyone gets what they want. Happy ending.

We’ll see.

Geralt nudged the colt and followed Sheltingham’s retainer down the road.

The road to Ambervale was long and lined with beautiful, stately willow trees that looked to be twenty or thirty years old. The hedges that cradled the three-story house were without strays, perfectly manicured, as was the lawn. Geralt wondered if it was trimmed by hand, with slaves or retainers on their hands and knees with scissors. He’d heard that was done by the very wealthy. Mistress Iduna hadn’t bothered; she’d liked the look of men and women tramping in to her parlor, muddied and masked.

Two grooms were waiting in the shade of the house. They stepped forward and took the reins of the horses as Geralt’s escort dismounted. Geralt dismounted as well, and followed the man into the house. Up a flight of stairs. The house was filled with expertly crafted and probably quite expensive furniture. Geralt was shown into a man’s study. Sheltingham was standing in the center of the room, studying a portrait of what looked like a tastefully staged orgy scene, all intent and little actual carnal activity.

He turned as Geralt entered the room. The retainer, whose name Geralt had not been given and hadn’t cared to ask, shut the door behind him.

Geralt dropped his eyes. “How may I serve you, Lord Sheltingham?” he inquired.

“Do you want to serve me?” Sheltingham’s tone was amused.

“Of course, my lord.”

“You were there. You know what I want.”

Geralt gazed at Sheltingham, noting the man's rapid breathing, the obvious interest. "You want me."

"I imagine you see that a lot," Sheltingham remarked.

"Why don't you take me, then?"

"Are you offering?"

"Do I need to?"

"Yes."

"Interesting," said Geralt. "I haven't quite decided, then. I don't know what your motives are."

"Aren't they obvious?"

"I don't trust the obvious."

"Very wise of you."

Sheltingham was a devil, that was certain. He was of that breed of men who never did anything by impulse, and never allowed his emotions or lusts to master him. He was allowing Geralt to see what he wanted Geralt to see. He’d met men like that before, at Idunia’s parties. Most of Idunia’s guests were lords and ladies of high rank, Geralt had been certain, though almost all of them had worn masks to hide their identities. "What is it you really want?"

"You're a very straightforward man. Refreshing."

"Makes life simpler."

"Dangerous for a slave."

"It can be."

"You are aware of the agreement that your master and I have regarding your sale?"

"Of course."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"I'm flattered that you value me so highly."

"There, now, there *is* something of the diplomat in you after all..." Sheltingham smiled. "Your master has quite the reputation. Buying up the odds and ends of the world and setting them free. But they don't go far, even as freemen. Is that what he intends for you?"

"Time will tell." Geralt pushed down his irritation. Slaves were not normally allowed to have private thoughts. He had been spoiled, having Jaskier as his master.

"Does he know you're here?"

"He has given me permission to pursue my own pleasures, as long as they do not interfere with my duties."

"That is not what I asked."

"Your man’s colors were displayed. If he wants me for anything he'll know where to look."

"Does he use you the way your other masters did?"

This had been a mistake, Geralt realized. He had been out of the game too long. He was no longer able to summon the subservience expected of a slave. But he couldn't afford to anger Sheltingham. He'd take his displeasure out on Jaskier. Geralt kept his eyes downcast, cloaking himself with the illusion of humility, trying to figure out a way to extract himself from the situation with the least amount of damage caused.

Sheltingham had obviously been titillated and intrigued by stories told by his former masters. The man’s sexual arousal would have to be addressed; if Geralt left the man unsatisfied, lust would turn to frustration and frustration to rage. It was the way men reacted.

He deepened his voice and summoned images into his head _Jaskier’s hands, Jaskier’s mouth_ that made his cock stand at attention. "Shall we dispense with the foreplay, my lord? You want to know what I did for my former masters? Let me show you." He stepped behind Sheltingham and pressed against him, letting him feel Geralt’s erection, bending to kiss his neck. With a husky growl he suggested "You have a bed somewhere? Or do you want to take me on the floor?" His first master, Jonel, had enjoyed that; forcing Geralt into uncomfortable positions and making him hold still as he was being stimulated. "Standing…on my knees…or all fours?"

"You're very good at this," Sheltingham remarked. "I haven't been this aroused since the family parlor maid cornered me in a closet when I was thirteen." He turned his head and smiled wryly. "She was two and thirty. Not that it mattered in the dark. I’ve heard witchers live long lives and age slowly. How old are you, Geralt?"

"Old enough to make my own choices." I never want this man as an enemy. Even his weaknesses he uses to advantage. Gods help me if I make a mis-step tonight. “What would you like that choice to be, my lord?”

"If you belonged to me, I wouldn't be negotiating with you, obviously. But you do not. What is it that you want, Geralt? You know what I want. At least for now."

If he asked for a lucrative contract for Jaskier's stable, the man might very well give it to him. But it would be presumptuous on Geralt's part, suggesting that he thought he had the right to make such contracts. And it would make Jaskier feel like he had sold Geralt for his own advantage, even if he had nothing to do with it. Jaskier was odd that way. Sheltingham could take advantage of that, and probably would.

It might be Sheltingham's intention to cause trouble between Jaskier and his slave. Or he might just be testing the relationship.

"Ask nothing for your master,” Sheltingham instructed. “Shed that responsibility for tonight. What do *you* want?"

What Sheltingham was asking for was a personal exchange, then. It was flattering in a way, and very dangerous. He was a slave. He shouldn't have had the right to anything, not even his own body. But Jaskier had given him permission. To give, certainly. Was he allowed to exchange, as well? Hard to know. He had an answer for Sheltingham, though. There was only one lingering worry that he had never been able to address. "When I was enslaved, my horse was stolen from me in the town of Huggen, by a man named Thalton. I'd like to know what happened to her."

"That's all you want?"

"It's important to me." It wasn’t a small request. A hundred miles and seven years distant might have obscured Roach’s passage beyond saving.

"It's an odd request."

"My oddness has been remarked on before."

Sheltingham smiled. "We have an agreement, then. Come, my bedroom is upstairs. Everything we need will be there."

What form would Sheltingham's desires take, Geralt wondered as he climbed the stairs behind the lord. He was a man of power, second only to the king in the eyes of some. Ambervale was ten times the size of Iris House’s estate, and it wasn’t his largest property. Men of power tended to have developed specific tastes, he had heard from gossiping guards and fellow slaves. And he had learned it from personal experience. He’d never heard anything about Sheltingham, though. Whatever the man did in the privacy of his bedroom stayed private. He was quite certain he’d never met the man at any of Idunia’s parties, and as he was usually expected to be the prime source of entertainment, if Sheltingham had been there, Geralt would have encountered him.

Geralt followed him up another flight of stairs.

Sheltingham’s house was quite impressive. The floors were polished to such a degree that rugs were required to keep from slipping. Geralt wondered if he ought to take his boots off. The staircase had a multi-layered look to it; it must be tigerwood, a particular species of tree that grew only in southern Cintra.

The hallway was lined with portraits, most bearing a strong family resemblance to his host. He would have sworn that one was Sheltingham himself except that the style of clothing was rather odd.

Sheltingham’s bedroom was at the very end of the hall. He opened the door and went inside. Geralt followed.

“Lock the doors,” Sheltingham instructed.

There were two of them, one leading out to the hall and the other, presumably, to the bedroom that the lady of the house would occupy. Geralt couldn't remember a wife ever being mentioned in connection with Lord Sheltingham.

The doors were heavy and had a complicated double locking system that it took Geralt a moment to figure out. It seemed an odd choice for a man in his own bedroom. When he had finished fastening the locks, it occurred to him that Sheltingham had invited a total stranger into his bedroom. If that man turned out to be an enemy, there would be no way anyone could break through the door to aid him.

Interesting.

The bed was large; four thick poles at the corners that could have supported a canopy. They stood at attention with seemingly no task other than to guard the bed. The bed had no pillows, just a flat surface covered with a silk sheet.

Geralt wondered if he regularly slept with just a sheet, or if the bed had been altered in anticipation of Geralt's arrival. The walls were bare. The only other furniture consisted of a wardrobe and a dresser with a mirror.

Sheltingham stood beside the bed, watching Geralt. He made no attempt to undress other than removing his boots. Geralt stepped in close, waiting to see if Sheltingham would strip Geralt or give instruction but the man simply waited. Passively.

Geralt unbuttoned the man’s shirt, then undid the buttons at his sleeves. Still, Sheltingham waited.

Experimentally, Geralt grasped Sheltingham’s arms and pulled them over the man's head, trapping them behind his neck.

Immediately, Sheltingham’s eyes dilated.

Aha, thought Geralt. He had Sheltingham placed now. He bore the man backward into the wall, not hard enough to injure but with enough force that the impact was felt.

Sheltingham’s breathing was rapid. He licked his lips and closed his eyes. Geralt ground his erection into Sheltingham’s and gripped his arms more tightly. He began to plunder Sheltingham's mouth but immediately sensed the man's withdrawal.

No kissing, then. It took a while to learn a sex partner’s body and preferences. Men were easier, more direct. He stripped Sheltingham’s shirt off, then the pants, with almost brutal efficiency, keeping the man’s arms trapped, leaving him naked and shivering in reaction. He looked toward the bed, and as he had expected there was a telltale sign of restraints hidden away, gripping the four posts. Geralt yanked Sheltingham away from the wall and swung him around, pushing him back against the bed and down.

Sheltingham moaned and struggled, now painfully aroused. Geralt wondered if there would even be time to bring the restraints into play. Must have been a long time, for him. He grabbed for a cuff and snapped it over Sheltingham’s right wrist, trapping the man’s legs between his own.

Sheltingham bucked and tried to throw him off but Geralt was stronger and outweighed him by a considerable amount. He trapped Sheltingham’s other wrist, then captured his ankles in the same matter. Sheltingham's eyes were closed as he silently fought against the restraints.

Not a talker. Good. Geralt just found the ones who insisted on vocalization annoying. His hand closed around the base of Sheltingham’s cock and the moment his lips slipped over the swollen head the man convulsed silently and orgasmed.

Geralt swallowed him down.

“Your...reputation...falls considerably short of the reality,” Sheltingham gasped. He watched Geralt, eyes open and oddly vulnerable, the aftershocks of his completion still running through his body. "This is the point at which, if you were a secret assassin for Glenville or DeVrais, you'd slit my throat and leave me to be found eventually by the authorities."

"Fortunate for you that I'm not, then. Do you want to be released?"

"Not yet, if you don't mind."

Geralt lay down on the bed, one arm draped over Sheltingham's chest. "Take your time, then. I'm not expected back until after lunch."

"Thank you."

Sheltingham wasn't treating him like a slave. It was the mark of only the most powerful, when a man didn't feel obliged to remind those who served him of his own power. "Tell me what you like afterwards."

"This. Touch my hair. Kisses, not on the mouth. Not...more passion."

Affection. It was not a thing men often gave each other, in Geralt's experience. _Would Jaskier prove to be a cuddler_? That was a question Geralt intended to answer. But not today. He sat up and began to lay a pattern of slow kisses across Sheltingham's chest. Sheltingham closed his eyes as Geralt's hands and lips roved over his body.

Finally, Sheltingham gave a long, contented sigh. "Enough. I've a meeting in an hour and my valet needs to help me dress. Thank you. Are you certain your master won't mind?"

"If he does, he'll tell me. And then our association must come to an end."

Sheltingham's eyes closed.

"I won't share the details," Geralt promised. "And he won't ask."

"Thank you. My man has orders to take you back to Iris House whenever you wish."

Geralt bent to kiss his throat one last time. He released Sheltingham's wrists from the cuffs.

He had much to ponder over on the way home.


	2. Crisis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Geralt and Sheltingham continue their odd relationship, Geralt is continually moved to wonder what it means. Until it comes to a crisis point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I've poked and puttered at this long enough, I'm just going to toss it into the A3 vortex.
> 
> The only other story that I have in this queue is the extended love scene from the end of the original. Plus maybe some expansions of the first chapter. Eventually I'll get to the third (second) book in the Witcher Mountain series, which will be pretty huge so it may be a while. In the meantime, I invite you'all to take a look at my latest short story, Honor Enough, which is in the World of Warcraft universe. Be sure to watch the video first. One thing that caught my attention is that Saurfang has all that lovely long white hair...who does he remind me of? At least from the back. If you can ignore all the green :)

Sheltingham had his head groom, Maltis, acquaint Geralt with Ambervale’s stable. The horses, the tack rooms, the track, the exercise yards. In the largest stallion box was Blood Moon, the King’s Cup winner from five years ago, according to the head groom. He was a sleek looking animal, blood bay, with a mane and tail that had been pulled for practicality. Geralt remembered seeing a number of colts and fillies with his look in the yearling pen.

Twenty mares, five geldings, and more at pasture, Geralt had noticed. Three stallions. Only Blood Moon would have been a match for Demoncatcher, in Geralt’s opinion.

Sheltingham put in an appearance near the end of the tour, as Maltis was putting him to a sulky two-year-old in one of the exercise yards.

“Excellent idea,” Sheltingham remarked, as if the groom would have done such a thing without his lord’s approval. “Let’s see what you can do with him.”

The colt wasn’t so much ill tempered as underworked, Geralt decided. He was soon tucking and collecting and showed a great deal of willingness once he learned he wasn’t going to be mistreated. There was some speed to him, though Geralt wouldn’t know how much until he had room to stretch the colt out.

As they headed back to the house, Geralt remarked "Whatever happened to Patina? I didn't see her in your stable."

"Oh...she wasn't for me. A bit too placid. She was a gift for my brother's youngest. The girl is timid on horseback."

"Was it a good match?"

"Come by to visit tomorrow and see for yourself. She's visiting at ten."

"Perhaps I will." He just wanted to make sure Jaskier’s favorite filly was not being mistreated, Geralt told himself. Jaskier would want to know. It wasn’t that he had any preference for Sheltingham’s company. They had a bargain between them, and Geralt was keeping his end up. He wondered if Sheltingham were doing the same, or if he intended to make only a token effort to locate Roach. He wondered if he would be able to tell the difference.

Not that the tasks Sheltingham set him were all that onerous. He’d far rather be the one using the ropes than in them. And Sheltingham offered a generous table afterwards.

* * *

Hooves thudded on the packed earth. A horse came cantering in; Geralt recognized Patina right away. On her back was a girl, dressed in the sideways dress that flatlander women wore. Impractical, although that described most of their women's clothing. Her head covering had been lost and her hair was flopping about. She had a pretty face; full lips and rosy cheeks. "Uncle! Look! We're galloping!"

"Well done," said Sheltingham as she pulled up in front of him. "Geralt, this is my niece, Brigit."

Brigit slid to the ground. She looked from Geralt to her uncle.

"This is Geralt. He's the one who trained Patina."

"Oh! Thank you! I love her!" The girl threw her arms around Geralt. The scent of her perfume drifted up, her body was soft and warm.

Then she stepped back, blushing.

"Take your horse to the stable and have her taken care of," Sheltingham said. After she had gone, he turned to Geralt. "Really? In front of my niece? She's only fifteen."

"Not my fault," Geralt protested. "She smells good. And she hugged me."

Sheltingham rolled his eyes. "If I owned you, I wouldn't be able to take you anywhere, would I?"

"Hmmm." It had become almost an easy jest between them, though sometimes it made Geralt uneasy. Sheltingham’s desire for him was never displayed in public, but he was obviously grooming Geralt for extra work with some of his more challenging youngsters. And he couldn’t help the strong feeling that there was something more to the man’s interest than physical pleasure and Geralt’s training abilities. Sheltingham had no shortage of skilled trainers. “What are you going to do with her?”

“With who? Patina? She belongs to Brigit.”

“The girl.”

“We’ll have lunch and then she’ll go home. Why? Were you thinking I’d lure her into an orgy?”

“Never quite sure what you’ll do,” Geralt muttered under his breath, then caught himself and added “Milord.”

Sheltingham laughed. “That sort of thing isn’t done. Unmarried girls are not allowed to attend orgies.”

Flatlander customs and the raising of their young seemed to be a thing so snarled with rules and pitfalls that it was a wonder any of them managed to achieve adulthood, in Geralt’s opinion. Witchers had a far more practical outlook. You taught your children what they needed to know in order to become the adults they were destined to be. Whatever that was. Most of the men became hunters, protecting the tribe from the devastation unleashed by the witcher woman. The women…the tribe needed them. But they could be…difficult.

“Do you like women, Geralt?”

“I’m not generally given…” _preferences_ “…to having preferences, Different bodies have different parts and different minds have different responses. As you would say of your parlor-maid, it’s all the same in the dark.”

Sheltingham stood in sober thought for a time. “We’re alike that way, aren’t we? We don’t feel the need to romanticize our pleasures or describe them. They just are. No illusions.”

“None here.” Geralt couldn’t deny that there was a terrible pull to the conversations he frequently found himself in with Sheltingham, to the lure of being two men with no attachments other than a common interest or two. It was uncomplicated and soothing.

The wind blew through the willow whips, tangling them, reminding him of something he had once fought in a mountain pass when he was fifteen. The mountains were full of monsters. Things the flatlanders had no knowledge of, things that would terrify them and send them into a frenzy of war, if they knew who was responsible for their existence. They had been afraid of the mountains, and their inhabitants, without ever understanding why. Except perhaps in their nightmares.

His life in the mountains had scarred him on the outside. His life with the flatlanders had scarred him far more cruelly. If you took away my scars, how much of me would be left? Geralt wondered. Have I allowed myself to be reduced to nothing but my scars? Sometimes it seemed safer that way. Scars could be used as a shield against the world. They shaped how people saw you.

Sheltingham cleared his throat. “Don’t take this as other than what I am stating, Geralt, but…if you belonged to me, I would treat you well. I just want you to know that. Nothing more. There is no expectation on my part attached to this.”

There was something about the way he said it that filled Geralt’s heart with dread, though he didn’t know why. “Thank you, my lord.” Scars. Play the slave, Geralt. A slave always knows what to say, how to behave.

* * *

“Well. What do you think of her?”

Sheltingham and Geralt stood, side-by-side, gazing across a full-size replica of the Kings Cup track, watching Sheltingham’s jockey bat the two-year-old filly, Moondust, down the final stretch.

“She might be persuaded to place for you but she won't win,” Geralt told him.

Sheltingham scowled. “Why do you say that? Her speed is remarkable.”

“And her confirmation,” Geralt agreed. “But she loses interest going down the final stretch.”

“She just needs a little competition.”

“Maybe.” Geralt saw no point in arguing. “Put Snowstorm and Dervish out with her. You'll see what I mean.”

Sheltingham gave the orders and grooms scurried to obey him. _If I was his slave, would he even be talking to me_ , Geralt wondered _or would I just be another faceless, hopeless wretch who scrambled to do his bidding?_ Why did Sheltingham deign to treat him as a man and not a slave?

Drew, the jockey, walked the filly in easy circles, awaiting orders. Soon, the other two-year-olds, one white and the other gold, were trotted onto the track.

“She's blown,” Sheltingham predicted. “She’ll be at a disadvantage.”

“Maybe.” Privately, Geralt doubted it. The filly had plenty of stamina. Just no ambition. “She's carrying less, though.”

The three horses lined up. Drew looked like a child next to the men riding Snowstorm and Dervish.

“Go!” Sheltingham commanded, and they were off.

The filly took an early lead, breezing along as if she hadn't already lapped twice. The colts drove determinedly in her wake.

By the final stretch, they had caught up with her. It wasn't that she was tired; her coal gray coat was darkly stained with sweat but the colts were foaming and heaving, white flecks wind-blown from mouth and body.

It was Dervish who pounded into the lead. His ears were straining forward, his legs pounding, the lines of his body, his very existence, all focused on one simple goal. Winning.

Moondust came in last. Drew rode her to the fence.

“What do you think, Drew?” Sheltingham asked. “She's got the speed. And the stamina.”

Drew shook his head. “She's got no fire. Anyone can see it in the final. She'll embarrass the house.”

“Can you train it into her?” Sheltingham demanded of Geralt.

Drew and Geralt exchanged glances. Geralt shook his head.

“Fine.” Sheltingham said sourly. “Looks like we'll have nothing to enter this year.”

“What about Dervish?” Geralt asked. “He's got the drive. He wants it bad.”

“He's not fast enough,” Drew said. “I've raced at speed in the cup. It'll break his heart. He'll give it everything and it won't be enough.”

“Well at least she's a mare. Find her a stud with drive and you may have a winner.,” Geralt suggested.

Sheltingham's head rose and he stared at Geralt. “Is your master selling breedings to Demon?”

Demon and Moondust. “Risky.” That was a match made in heaven or hell. You’d get a fast, high stamina foal, true, but it was anybody's guess how the temperament would come out. Neither choice seemed optimal. “You might be better off pairing her with Dervish. “

“Also risky. With my luck these days I’d probably end up with a plodder who likes to nap in the stretch.”

* * *

It was six days until Demoncatcher would run in the King’s Cup. Jaskier expected Geralt to ride, but Geralt knew that to be impossible. Not if they wanted to win. He stood at attention in Sheltingham’s study, wondering if it had been a mistake to come. His host was drunk and agitated about something; a bad combination.

Sheltingham brooded in his chair, staring down at the half-filled glass of brandy held in his slender fingers. "If your master wins the King's Cup, I'll lose you, won't I?"

The prize money was six hundred. Half of that...his ledger balance was two hundred and fifty-five. Assuming Jaskier would consider the prize money to be part of the same deal under which the two-year-olds had been sold. "I'll have made back my purchase price, yes. Jaskier will free me."

"You have no doubts at all about him, do you?"

"None."

"And the only thing keeping him out of your bed is your slave status. Gods save me from the truly principled man. They're so fucking difficult to work with." Sheltingham swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, a vaguely soured look on his face. "And I supposed once he's had your cock in his arse he won't want it in anyone else's." His words were beginning to slur. "Men of principle are willing to share everything but their lovers."

"We need a rider for the cup. I'm too large, my weight will hold Demoncatcher back. I'd like to borrow Drew."

"Yes. I had assumed that's what you were here to ask for." Sheltingham tipped back his head and emptied the glass. "Cutting things a bit close. The race is in six days. Didn't want to give me too much time to think it over?"

Geralt knew better than to answer that question. Sheltingham either would or he wouldn't. Geralt wondered what he had to offer the man that hadn't already been given, many times.

The room grew quiet, but for the crackle of the dying fire.

"I could make conditions." Sheltingham's voice was a low growl. There was a savage glint in his eyes. "Your lover would feel obliged to honor them, if he knew. Or you might conceal them to spare his pride. But it would be too much like...begging, wouldn't it?" His hand closed around the neck of the brandy bottle and he refilled his glass. "Fuck you, Geralt. Get out."

Geralt rode Roach home, feeling the chill of the coming autumn.

* * *

Jaskier dug into the stinking bottom layer of straw in Demon's box. Geralt had the stallion out in the high pasture, stretching his legs and showing off for the mares. It was an opportunity for the thorough stall stripping that Jaskier had been meaning to get to for weeks.

On the other side of the barn, a restless thudding informed him that Demoncatcher was ready for his daily workout. Geralt, Clythe and Shane had cleared out the trees from an area half the size of the King's Cup track, and then laid down an oval shaped pathway of wood shavings and pine needles.

The work had taken them the better part of the spring and summer but it would be time well spent if Demoncatcher managed to place in the King's Cup. Even third-place would net them a hundred crowns. But even better, it would give Iris House's stable a standing in the racing community.

Geralt had been taking the full distance at speed every day for a week. He said Demoncatcher was ready, and there was a strong chance he’d place. Jaskier had already sent a private courier to Ard Carraigh to register and pay the entry fee. In five days they’d know if their gambit would pay off.

"I'm looking for Lord Jaskier." It was a man's voice, with an odd lilt to it.

Jaskier straightened. "You’ve found him." When he turned around, he found himself facing a stranger whose eyes were barely level with Jaskier's armpits.

The man glanced up at Jaskier, his gaze measuring. "I understand you have a cup-worthy colt but no rider. I'm offering my services.”

Jaskier frowned. He hadn’t told anyone about his plan to enter the colt, other than Geralt, of course. “You’re misinformed. My trainer can ride him.”

“You’ll lose five places, at least. Geralt has two hundred pounds on most of the other riders.”

“You know Geralt?”

“I’ve seen him about the stable. We’ve talked. My name is Drew Palomar. I rode Nocturne three years ago, and Blood Moon five years ago."

Lord Sheltingham’s man. Jaskier’s breath hitched. Always Sheltingham. Still, he had to admit to a secret thrill, meeting the famous jockey in person. He flushed, trying to remember if he’d ever mentioned the man to Geralt. Jaskier wiped his hand on his shirt and held it out. "I'm pleased to meet you. I remember Blood Moon. Last out of the gate, wasn't he?"

They shook hands.

"Strategy." Drew grinned at him. "The colt had a vicious temper. If he'd come out with the crowd, he'd have spent himself quarreling. I distracted him in the box and he spent half the race pissed off because the others were in front. Gave him something to prove."

"I'll never forget that last rush. He took half the field in five seconds." Jaskier had gone home and composed a song about it, the way Blood Moon's red coat stood out in a field of browns and greys, the almost savage look of triumph and determination as he forced his way through the crowd and surged ahead...

"He was quite a colt," Drew agreed. "Need a hand, Milord?"

"I wouldn't turn it down." Jaskier wondered at the man’s motives. Had Sheltingham given him orders to curry favor with Jaskier? If so, why? What did the man hope to gain?

They worked in silence, broken only by an occasional grunt or sigh. For a man his size, Drew was both strong and efficient. They had the box stripped down and repacked with clean straw in far less than half the time Jaskier had expected that task to have taken him.

Jaskier wiped a layer of sweat off his brow. “You’ll want to meet Demoncatcher.”

“I’d like to take him out, if that meets with your lordship’s approval. Geralt says you have a training track.”

There was nothing servile in the man’s manner. He used Jaskier’s title simply as a courtesy. Jaskier got the feeling that if the colt didn’t meet with Drew’s approval he wouldn’t be riding. “Of course. If Geralt has suggested you should try the colt, then you are welcome to do so.”

Drew gave him a speculative glance.

Jaskier flushed. He hadn’t meant to give voice to the odd rivalry that was developing between himself and Lord Sheltingham over Geralt’s time. Or the jealousy, though Jaskier knew he didn’t have any reason for it. Geralt had made it clear, over and over, that if Jaskier objected to Geralt’s relationship with Sheltingham he would sever it. “The tack room’s this way. We have a racing saddle.” Again, his ears burned. Sheltingham probably had half a dozen of them, all embossed with his colors.

Drew inspected the saddle gravely. “Old, but still serviceable,” he pronounced it. He tested the leather straps and peered between the layers for mildew.

He handled the colt’s ill temper with a practiced hand, neither yielding to it nor responding with harshness. Demoncatcher was saddled and bridled and headed to the track at an ambling trot, Jaskier following in their wake. Drew sat his mount with a relaxed ease, and the colt responded well to him. It was a good match, though part of Jaskier hated to admit it.

Drew kept the colt behind the makeshift starting post until he had begun to fidget and make small, impatient noises, then, with a quick jab of his heels, sent Demoncatcher pounding down the track.

It wasn’t a performance that would have set records. Sometimes Drew seemed to be urging the colt on, other times pulling him back. They did two circuits and when Drew pulled him aside and headed for the barn, the colt was barely blowing.

They met Geralt coming out of the barn. The witcher stopped abruptly, staring at Drew as if he was a complete surprise. He looked at Jaskier, who raised an eyebrow in reply. _Why is Geralt so surprised_? Hadn’t this been his idea in the first place?

Drew let Geralt take the reins. “He’s got promise. I’ll be back tomorrow.” He gave his head a quick shake and hurried off.

Demoncatcher shoved at Geralt, demanding to be rubbed down, and Geralt turned and led him into the barn. Jaskier stripped off the colt’s tack. When he returned from stowing and cleaning it, Geralt was waiting for him in the exercise area in front of the barn. Geralt had his arm hooked around a post; he was staring thoughtfully off into space. “I didn’t expect him to come.”

“Why not?”

“Sheltingham and I quarreled yesterday. No, that isn’t exactly accurate. He was displeased with me.”

“Is this anything I should know about?”

“No. It’s…personal.”

“Is he trying to coerce you into something?”

“No.” He fell silent for a moment. “Just the opposite. I would have expected him to.” He sighed. “Without Drew, or someone like him we have no chance at the Cup. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do now.” His grandfather had raced, but only half-heartedly, as a gentleman’s hobby, and Jaskier had never been privy to what went on behind the scenes at races.

“All things being equal, weight will make or break a race.”

“Do you think he’ll ride for us?”

“I think so.”

“Is there anything I can do? Should do? Is Sheltingham expecting a visit from me, some kind of formal request?”

“Gods…no…” Geralt’s voice was horrified.

“Another private world that cannot be allowed to collide?” They’d spoken of it briefly, long ago. Jaskier never asked Geralt questions about witchers, though he was always willing to listen with interest if Geralt wanted to talk.

“I never intended for this to happen, Master.” Geralt seldom called him Master these days except when they were being overheard by outsiders. “It was supposed to be a simple exchange of services.”

“But things get messy when people are involved, don’t they? Is it on his side, or yours?” Jaskier asked. He reached out to grip Geralt’s shoulder gently. “It’s all right.”

Geralt stared at the dirt. “My fault. I should have been more careful. This isn’t the first time someone I was fucking became…attached.”

“Do you care about him?”

“I would have said no..”

“Until?”

“Last night. He was drunk. I shouldn’t have been there when he was drunk. It makes men say things that they regret later. I let him reveal things that he never would have if he’d been sober.”

“Political secrets?” Now Jaskier looked alarmed. Men as powerful as Sheltingham had dangerous secrets.

“Nothing like that. Just personal things.”

“It changed the way you feel about him?”

“It made me…think about it.”

“Ah.” Jaskier put down his pen and stared at the figures on his ledger. “Sometimes it’s easier not to think about things. But easier isn’t better. It will rise up to ambush you when you are least able to deal with it. You need to figure out what you want, Geralt. Once you know that, once you can be honest about that, it will help you to decide what you must do.”

* * *

By the morning, he decided what he needed to do was talk to Sheltingham. Explain. Apologize.

He was shown into the same study that Sheltingham had gotten drunk in the night before.

From the rank smell of alcohol and old sweat, he’d been there all night.

There was another bottle in front of him, almost empty. Rum, this time.

Sheltingham glared up at Geralt, his lip curled, his eyes bloodshot. “I want you, witcher. Curse you. I want to own you. More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my fucking life. But I can’t have you and I won’t take you, so get the hell out. Leave. I can only give you this once. Don’t ever come back if you value your life and his.”

Geralt did as he was commanded. His ride back was bleak, and Roach’s reins felt heavy in his hands. _This is my fault. I allowed us to become intimate, knowing that I planned to sever the relationship eventually._

_How could I have known?_

_How could I not have?_

There was an ache inside Geralt. He longed to take it to Jaskier, to ask him what he should do. But it would be selfish and inappropriate, and a betrayal of Jaskier’s nature. Jaskier’s compassionate heart might go out to Sheltingham and that would make an already complicated situation worse.

It would also be a betrayal of Sheltingham’s trust 

Do we still have that trust?

Yes. Otherwise the man wouldn’t have sent him away in the manner in which he did, emotionally raw, his pain on display for Geralt to see.

A man with Sheltingham’s connections could have financially manipulated Jaskier into bankruptcy in a few months, if that is what he had determined to do. Bought up or wooed his customers, sent out rumors to ruin his reputation. Once Jaskier’s debts began to pile up, Sheltingham could have bought those up as well, and called them due. All Jaskier’s assets, including Geralt, would have been sold off.

_I can’t have you…_

_I won’t take you…_

Why did flatlanders have to make relationships so complicated? The witchers understood that people could not be owned. Should not be. And among the flatlanders was the idea that love could have only one partner at a time. If there were more than one, it was just sex and it was not allowed, to admit to affection.

Would Sheltingham’s anger and humiliation turn inwards on itself, or would it seek an external outlet? If he sought revenge, would it be against Jaskier or Geralt? Or both?

Should I warn him? Geralt’s pain boiled out angrily. Damn it, Jaskier, why must you make this so complicated? In five days, or in five years, eventually, Geralt would find himself a free man. At that time, the nature of his relationship with Jaskier would change. They both knew it. Geralt had made no secret of his wants, and he could smell Jaskier’s desire for him when they were close.

If he’d been fucking Jaskier, he’d never have allowed his interest in Sheltingham to progress.

Would Sheltingham hint to Drew that he shouldn’t win the race?

No, that wasn’t in the man’s character. And besides, he had already burnt his bridges there. _Don’t come back…_

He’d miss their time together. He could admit it. Sheltingham had treated him like an equal, much as Jaskier had been doing, but without the added responsibility of ownership.

What kind of a master would Sheltingham have been?

_I hope I never have to find out._


End file.
